Walking The Dogs

Mid morning, I go have a shower. I look a fright, I haven’t had a shower for a few days, one of the delights of working from home. Dirty undies, scratch your arse, no one cares.

I take the dogs for a walk, like I did yesterday morning, when I don’t have to work, and Sam does.

We met Apollo the Groodle as soon as we leave our gate who rolls over prostrate for the Bulldogs. The owner, with her two daughters, exclaims, “What does that mean?”

“I guess it means he’s not afraid.”

“He’s going to be big,” she says when I say Otto is 6 months old.

“I hope not, I say. “Just the same size as Bruno, please.”

We met Bronski the French bulldog before we get to George Street. He’s a live wire, as French Bulldogs often are.

“He’s going to be big,” she says when I say Otto is 6 months old.

“I hope not, I say. “Just the same size as Bruno, please.”

I hear the magpies call at Napier Street.

It’s warm enough for shorts and T-shirts. Even if the sky is grey, the Sun is trying to shine.

There’s a line of girls lined up down Young Street to Gertrude Street, like I imagine Taylor Swift fans to be, fat and plain with nothing much else in their lives. I have no idea what they’re doing. I'm guessing there must be some sort of pop up clothes shop, but I'm not interested enough to work out where.

Brunswick Street > Johnson Street. We cross the road and walk on the north side of Johnson Street so we don’t have to keep saying hello to [name] every time we walk past her shop. I like [name] and all, I do, but we don’t have to do the hello thing on every walk.

I like tuning out on dog walks, I like clearing my mind, it is sort of meditative just me and my dogs. I don't even take headphones and listen to music any more, just clear the mind and hear the sounds of the day.

We meet up with the small curly-haired dog that comes out his front door barking and hangs out in his front yard sticking its head through its front fence to say hello. He’s quiet as we sniff noses, but barks as soon as we walk away. His owner comes out. She apologises for his barking.

“That’s okay,” I say, “I quite like seeming him every day.” And I do, on Bruno and Otto's walks.

I chat to Jackson Wag, my next door neightbour, at my gate. He’s off to the pool for a swim.

11:41am. We’re home.

In the afternoon, we head over to Sam’s rental so the guy can measure up for new carpet before he gets new tenants.

So, we worked on the house all day. Our day for working on the house consists of about 2 hours, 1pm. to 3pm, usually, maybe a little longer.

Sam had bought some venetian blinds which were the wrong size, which we took back to the store nearest home, but Sam had forgotten a part of the packaging so we had to drive all the way back across the northern suburbs to get it, and then back again.

Two thumbs up, Sam. “Good job,” I said.